


Botched The Landing

by tj_teejay



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Post-Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 20:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16541555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay/pseuds/tj_teejay
Summary: With Matt being housebound for a few days, Matt, Karen and Foggy finally get a chance to talk.





	Botched The Landing

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoiler warning for season 3 of Daredevil**  
>  **Bingo prompt:** Wildcard. This completes a full blackout of my Daredevil bingo card, which took me way too long, but is still something I’m mildly proud of. (Yay?)  
>  **Author’s Note:** This is a conversation that I kinda want Matt, Foggy and Karen to have after all that happened in season 3. Also, I frickin' love the TV show version of Maggie Murdock.

+-+-+-+-+

Matt finds it kind of ironic that it wasn’t even a fight that knocked him on his ass this time. The damn ear infection from hell that just wouldn’t clear up, lack of sleep, and a badly misjudged jump were all it took.

When it happened, he could feel his ankle rolling as soon as it hit the ground, his body slamming into the gravel mercilessly, the impact jarring every fiber in his right side. It had taken him a full minute to catch his breath and even attempt to get up.

When he sits up with a groan, he notices the slick warmth of liquid running down the side of his face. He takes off his glove and carefully feels for the source. A sizeable gash near his hairline above his temple. It’s still oozing freely.

“Shit,” he mutters. Just his luck.

Back tentatively on his feet, his right ankle won’t take much weight, as much as he clenches his teeth. He knows it’s not broken, but a ligament or two are damaged. He knows right there it’s gonna take him out of the game for a while, and he already positively hates it.

He tries to get his bearings, and it takes him a few seconds. Somehow, miraculously, he’s just a block away from St. Agnes. It still takes him an inordinate amount of time to get there, with his ankle busted and his head slightly fuzzy.

He makes it onto the grounds, unsure where to go next. It’s the middle of the night, probably right around the 2 a.m. mark. He needs to catch his breath for a moment, gather some strength, figure out a plan. There’s a low stone wall lining a flower bed that he sinks down on.

Just as he still contemplates his next move, he hears footsteps approaching. He quickly pulls the mask off his head. For all they knew, he could just be a passerby dressed in black who had an accident on his way home from the bar around the corner, looking for help.

The footsteps are vaguely familiar, although that could just be his mind playing tricks. They approach too quickly for him to make any kind of getaway, although they don’t seem hurried. They suddenly stop when they notice him.

“Matthew?” a female voice says.

It’s one of the nuns. She’s younger, maybe in her mid-twenties. She brought him food a few times when he stayed at the orphanage after the Midland Circle incident.

He lets out a confirmatory hum, and she steps closer. “My goodness, you’re bleeding.”

She crouches by his side, trying to get a look at his head wound. “I’ll go get Maggie.”

“No,” he croaks, not even sure why.

“You need medical assistance. Can you walk?”

“Not really. I twisted my ankle.”

“Okay, wait here.”

“No hospital,” he ekes out as an afterthought. The nun doesn’t react to it. He thinks her name is Hannah.

He tries to follow her walk through the building, manages to focus just enough to hear her whispered voice telling Maggie who she found. Maggie is out of bed immediately, hurriedly throwing on a bathrobe. They walk briskly back around the building to where Matt is still sitting.

Maggie hurries to crouch by his side. “Matthew, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

He can’t help but crack a smile. She doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. “You know,” he jokes, “the usual.”

“Scalp laceration, bruises, concussion?”

“Busted ankle,” he adds. “No concussion.”

“Well then, I’d say we should get you inside to fix you up.”

“Yeah, I might need a little help with that.”

Maggie extends a hand. “Come on, up you get.” She’s quite strong for her petite frame, which doesn’t surprise Matt one bit.

He ends up slinging his arms around Hannah’s shoulders to his right and Maggie’s to his left, hopping mostly on his good leg to the room that has always been and is still being referred to as the infirmary. It’s really nothing more than a glorified broom closet with a few cabinets, a sink, and an old exam table that the faux leather is flaking off of at the edges.

The electric lights flicker on above, he can make out the buzzing noise that the neon lamp emits. Maggie lightly takes his chin in one hand and tilts his head, getting a better look at the gash on his temple.

“That will need stitches.” He had figured as much.

“Would you like me to look at your ankle?” she asks.

“No,” he tells her. “It’s not broken. If I take the shoe off, I’m not gonna get it back on.”

She seems to take him at face value, giving him a _huh-hm_ in response. “Go back to bed,” she instructs Hannah. “I’ve got this.”

“Yes, Sister Maggie.”

She rummages around in one of the cabinets. There’s clanking and rustling of equipment, sloshing of liquid in a plastic bottle. She gathers what she needs and pulls a stool over. Wet cotton balls swab at his wound, and he tries not to flinch from the sting of the antiseptic.

Maggie sighs. “I wish this didn’t feel so familiar.”

“You make it sound like we do this every week.”

“You know, if you wanted to see your mother, you could just visit during the day, like any normal human being.”

“Oh, but then this wouldn’t feel special.”

He thinks that may have elicited a smile from her. “There are certain kinds of ‘special’ that I don’t need in my life. Now hold still.”

She is readying the needle, being as careful as she can. Despite her gruff demeanor, her touch is light and gentle. Most of their relationship still happens between the lines, in the small spaces they allow each other to explore, treading ever lightly not to break the carefully established connection.

They don’t speak during the suture process. Matt is certain that she is trying to make the stitches as neat as she can, especially when she’s working on his face. He knows her skills are good, and he trusts her hands.

When she cuts off the last suture, she says, “That’s one down. Is there more?”

“No.”

“Well, then let’s get you cleaned up.”

She walks over to the sink and wets a towel, wringing it out. It’s cold against his cheek and temple as she wipes the dried blood away. He closes his eyes and draws in a long breath that he slowly lets out.

She lets her hand linger on his shoulder for a long moment. “Now, what are we going to do with you?”

“I should get home.”

“Which I think will be quite a feat with your leg like this.”

“You can call me a cab.”

“Matthew,” she says in a mock chastising tone. “A limping blind man with a fresh cut on his face, dressed all in black without a cane. Tell me that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.”

“This is New York,” he says by way of explanation.

“I grant you that, but I think one of your friends would be better suited for the job.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I can make you up a bed, we’ll call someone to pick you up in the morning.”

“No, that’s really not necessary.”

“Yes, it is, and I am not going to argue about this at three o’clock in the morning.”

Truth be told, he doesn’t feel much like arguing, either. Maybe Maggie can sense it, because she puts the towel away and says, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He can feel the exhaustion wash over him, and he isn’t sure he can fight it much longer. His ankle throbs angrily, calling for attention, and the wound on his temple makes itself known in pulsing stings. There’s a dull pain from this protesting torso that took some of the brunt. He really just wants to lie down and sleep.

When Maggie comes back, he has almost nodded off. Something squeaks next to her. She brought the wheelchair, which he is embarrassed but ultimately thankful for because he’s not keen on the idea of putting weight on his ankle any time soon.

Helping him into the chair is slightly awkward, and being pushed along the wide hallway is disorienting. She takes him to an empty room with two beds. “You can sleep here tonight. The bed on the right is made.”

“Thank you,” he says gratefully.

“Now, I think we need to get that shoe off your foot after all. I would help if you put some ice on it, and I can bandage it for you.”

He knows she’s right. It’s already swollen considerably. He just nods. Maggie helps him onto the bed and starts untying the laces on his shoes. She widens the shoe as much as she can. “You want me to help you?”

“No,” he says, lifting his foot up to do the work. He can’t suppress the heavy groan that escapes his mouth as he takes the shoe off as carefully as he can. Thankfully, Maggie has already left to get a bandage and an ice pack.

He wrestles his other foot out of the shoe, then takes off the sock to carefully examine the wrecked ankle. It feels just as swollen beneath his fingers as he imagined. He wants to let out a frustrated scream, it’s going to lay him up for much too long.

Maggie sits down at the edge of his mattress and starts putting an ACE bandage around the ankle. She places the ice pack on top of it when she’s done. Her hand rests on his shin when she says, “Get some sleep if you can. We’ll figure the rest out in the morning.”

He gives her a tired nod. “Thank you, Maggie.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

+-+-+-+-+

The night is restless, but he thinks he may have at least caught an hour or two of sleep. His eyes feel gritty and tired, his body aches with every movement. Life is not taking kindly to Matt Murdock’s well-being today.

Maggie quietly enters his room and he greets her with a low, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she greets back. “Did you get any sleep?”

“A little.”

“I will get you some breakfast.”

“No, thank you, that’s not necessary.”

“Have you not learned a single lesson the last time you stayed here?”

She brings him two sandwiches with jam, all fresh; the jam is homemade. He isn’t hungry but eats it anyway. He welcomes the hot peppermint tea, and it brings back memories. He’s not quite sure if that was Maggie’s intention.

“Let me call your friend,” she says as he is sipping from the steaming mug.

“I’ll do it.”

“I don’t need to stay to watch you do it, do I?”

God, she knows him so well. But, no, he was really going to do it, has warmed to the idea, now that he isn’t robbing his friends of valuable sleep. He gives her a knowing smile. “You don’t need to watch me do it.”

“Good.”

Karen’s mobile phone rings a few time before she picks up. He explains the situation, isn’t sure how she’s going to react. Karen was the logical choice, because she’s the one with the car.

“I’ll call Foggy,” she says after he’s told the story.

“No, you don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I will. Besides, he’ll wanna know why you’re a no-show at work, and then he’ll get worried. Trust me, we should call him.”

She’s probably right. He sighs. “Fine.”

“Okay, we’ll be there in a bit.”

By the time that Karen and Foggy get there, he’s made himself as presentable as he can and fought his injured and bandaged ankle into his shoe. The cut on his temple is just another testament to a long night he’s had many of, and the dull pain from the bruising he’s used to by now. The ankle, however, is making itself known violently, every time he tries to use it.

Both Foggy and Karen take immediate pity, wisely not commenting on his injuries. They’ve both seen him in worse condition. He takes the humiliation of the wheelchair on the chin, letting both Foggy and Karen help him into the passenger seat of Karen’s car. 

“Thank you,” he hears Karen tell Maggie.

“I guess he just can’t stay away,” she dryly responds.

“It means he trusts you. He doesn’t do that lightly.”

His mouth curves into a grateful smile. Maybe there’s a bit of pride mixed in. He can practically feel Foggy staring holes into the back of his head. “Stop wiretapping, it’s freaky. Not to mention privacy violation.”

“I wasn’t,” Matt protests.

“You totally were, I could see it from here.”

“How?”

“First, you’re telling me what happened.”

“Nothing much to tell. Misjudged a jump, botched the landing.”

“Wait, so you’re saying there was no second party involved?”

“No, just me.”

“That doesn’t sound like Matt Murdock. _Or_ Daredevil, for that matter. I’ve never seen anyone more sure-footed than you. Misjudging a jump doesn’t just happen, so what was it? Blow to the head? Concussion?”

Matt sighs. Foggy knows him too well. “Ear infection.”

Foggy draws in a long-suffering breath. “And how long has _that_ been going on?”

“I don’t know. Two weeks?”

“Two weeks? And you didn’t think to tell anyone? See a doctor, maybe?”

“It was getting better.”

“Yeah, well, obviously not enough to be fit for Daredeviling duty.”

Karen opens the driver’s side door and gets back into the car. “Can’t I leave you two alone for two seconds?”

“Did you know Matt had an ear infection?”

She starts the car. “No. Why?”

“Cause he thought it’d be a smart idea to jump across rooftops with his hearing all fucked up.”

Matt interjects. “Foggy, you’re overstating things. My hearing isn’t ‘all fucked up’. It was just a little muffled in one ear, that’s all.”

“Still. Enough for you to fuck up your balance. Your ankle case in point.”

Karen starts driving. “Should we get it checked out at the hospital?”

“No,” Matt negates quickly. “It’s not broken. I can tell. It’s just a strain, I can take care of it myself.”

Foggy lets out a disdainful snort in the backseat. Karen just says, “So your apartment, then.”

“Yeah.”

+-+-+-+-+

Getting Matt up the stairs is more laborious than it should be, and he hates every second of it. Not being mobile is going to make his life a living hell, at least for the next week or two. He hates not being independent, not being capable.

When he steers them towards the couch, Foggy asks, “How much have you slept last night?”

“Not much,” Matt admits.

“Then the bed it is.”

“Bathroom first,” Matt instructs them.

They deposit him there and close the door behind them. Foggy pokes his head in again a minute later with an armful of comfortable clothes. “Tell me if you need help.”

“Thanks, Foggy,” Matt says gratefully.

He does as much as he can to clean himself up without actually taking a shower. It’ll have to do. He’ll tackle the shower next time.

Foggy is quickly by his side when he emerges from the bathroom, hobbling awkwardly on one and a half legs.

His bed has never felt so nice. Karen brings him an ice pack for his leg that he happily accepts. She places a soft hand on his leg when she says, “There’s a glass of water on the nightstand, and some painkillers. Don’t be a hero and take them. We’ll let you get some rest. I can stay if you like.”

Now that he’s supine, the exhaustion his body has battled for too long is making itself clearly known. “No, please don’t. You and Foggy should get some work done.”

She lightly pats his leg. “Can’t really argue with that. We’ll be back tonight. Send a text if you’d like us to bring anything.”

He nods, already half asleep. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“Any time.”

He lazily trails her sounds as she closes the sliding door behind her, talking to Foggy in a low voice, rustle of clothes, footsteps down the hall and into the staircase. His emotions are hard to untangle at this very moment, but gratitude holds the lion’s share.

+-+-+-+-+

Matt isn’t sure how long he’s slept when he wakes up. The city below sounds like it’s still daytime. He fumbles around on his nightstand and finds his cell phone there. It informs him it’s 4:22 pm. Wow, he’s really been out cold.

There’s a message from Foggy that the phone reads to him. It makes Matt’s heart fill with an unexpected warmth that his friends are worried.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed to test the waters. His ankle is still protesting loudly as he puts weight on it, but it doesn’t seem quite as bad as in the morning. He awkwardly hobbles to the bathroom to freshen up, then puts on a new pair of track pants, t‑shirt and hoodie.

A mug of tea and a bowl of cereal satiates his immediate need for sustenance. He texts Foggy back to say that he’s up and everything is fine. Foggy and Karen will be by later with food, that he’s sure of.

He gets his laptop and settles down on the couch, his sprained ankle elevated, an ice pack resting on it. He’ll have to find a comfortable position later to meditate. For now, he starts checking e-mails and catches up on what he may have missed during the day.

His phone dings with a new voice message from Karen an hour later. “Hey Matt. Foggy and I are getting ready to leave. We’ll swing by something with take-out on the way. Anything specific you’d like?”

He voice-messages back. “Sounds great. No specific requests. Simple will do.”

She sends back a thumbs-up emoticon that the text-to-speech reads out to him.

They arrive maybe forty minutes later, and Matt can already smell the pizza from down the staircase. There’s a knock on his door a few minutes later.

“Housekeeping!” Foggy’s voice. Matt grins.

Karen adds, “Don’t get up, we’re letting ourselves in.”

Matt stays on the couch. He’s glad for every step he doesn’t have to move, if he’s honest.

Foggy and Karen are in cheerful moods, he can tell. The pizza scent is overwhelming, and he’s suddenly more hungry than he would have admitted ten minutes ago.

“We brought—” Foggy starts.

“Pizza,” Matt interrupts him. “Spicy pepperoni, Hawaii, and Deluxe.”

“Showoff,” Foggy retorts. “Don’t pretend like you’re not down with it, cause a) we asked, and b) I know you actually like pineapple on pizza. How’s the ankle?”

“Better.”

“But you’d rather not move, which you won’t admit, so I’m gonna say, don’t you dare get up. We’ve got it, buddy. You’re staying put.”

Karen is already unpacking the cardboard boxes while Foggy takes three beers from the fridge. He puts one in front of Matt on the coffee table while he settles himself into one of the armchairs with a slightly theatrical sigh.

Karen passes around the pizza cartons before she takes the other armchair. Deluxe pizza for Foggy, the pepperoni for her. The tomato smells fresh, the basil tangy, the pineapple sweet. It’s perfect. Matt savors the first bite.

There’s some banter and office talk between bites. Matt gets an update on the case file Karen did some work on earlier today. A few meetings were rescheduled. Everything’s going smoothly, and it finally feels like they’re falling back into a rhythm. It’s a wonderful change that there isn’t so much of the silent or not so silent disapproval on Foggy’s part, and none of the duplicity.

When the pizza cartons are empty and the beer bottles considerably depleted, contented silence settles for a few moments. It’s Karen who breaks it.

“Is it hard, being housebound like this? You know, at night…”

The question catches Matt unawares. “It, uh… Yeah. Sometimes.”

He can feel that Foggy doesn’t endorse where this is going, but he’s wisely staying quiet.

Karen’s voice is thoughtful, inquisitive as always. She wants to understand. “We talked about it before, the whole alcoholic thing. It _is_ a little like an addiction, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t like it when it’s phrased like that. It must be showing on his face, because Karen quickly course-corrects. “I don’t mean that in a negative sense. Just… it’s something that’s a part of you that you can’t just switch off. And when you can’t go out, it’s like something’s not right.”

He nods. “Yeah. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, for lack of a better metaphor.”

Foggy puts the beer he’s been holding on the table in front of him. “How strong does the itch need to get before it veers into self-destruction territory, though?”

Matt bristles at the suggestion. “You think I’m being self-destructive?”

“Aren’t you?”

Matt raises his eyebrows. “No.”

Foggy lets out a long, unhappy breath—like he has a need to object but doesn’t want to argue. He takes a moment before he says, “What if I politely disagree?”

Matt closes his eyes. They’ve been here before. Foggy adds, “Sometimes you’re being reckless. Can we at least acknowledge that?”

Yes, that’s something Matt can begrudgingly agree with. “I always have reasons.”

“And I don’t doubt that, but there’s a fine line between recklessness and self-destruction, and I feel like you’ve crossed it a few times. Or at least you’ve come very close.

“I’ve seen you when that happened, and it’s scaring me every time. Sometimes I still have to pinch myself to believe that you’re really back, like, literally from the dead, and then I think about you doing what you do, and it just…” Foggy trails off there.

“I get it,” he tells his friend. “You’re afraid it’ll happen again.”

“What happened to you after Midland Circle, Matt?”

He sighs. “It’s a long story.”

“And one you don’t wanna tell. I understand that, but that night you found me at the bar, you cold-heartedly stole my wallet, and you didn’t care. I was dumbfounded then, because it wasn’t the Matt Murdock I knew. That whole night, I tried to figure out what would have had to happen to make you act that way, and I came up empty.

“You know, all those months, Karen was the one who kept saying, Foggy, what if he’s not dead? They never found a body, right? I was the one who insisted that you were gone, because I figured, if Matt was alive, he’d tell us. He’d tell his best friend. He wouldn’t let his friends believe he’s dead when he isn’t.”

Yet, he had. Foggy doesn’t need to say it. “Yeah,” he said just above a whisper. “I know it was a shitty thing to do.”

Anger begins to cloud Foggy’s voice. “Shitty doesn’t quite cover it. We _grieved_ over you, mourned the loss of our friend. I had nightmares. For months. Can you even imagine what it’s like?”

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it, hasn’t tried to imagine. He knows what loss does to a person, what it means to grieve for someone you love. But there had been so many things at play, and he doesn’t know how to explain that to his friends.

His jaw works, his head hangs low in shame. “Yes, I can,” is all he can reply.

“Then _why_?”

“Foggy,” he starts desperately, trying to find the words that will not immediately make his friend angrier. “I know it’s hard to understand, and maybe you never will, because you don’t know what my life is like. I don’t know if I can explain it in a way that will make sense to you.”

“Try me,” Foggy snarls more than says.

“Not when you’re this upset. And I get it. I understand that you’re angry. You have every right to be. I don’t expect you to forgive me. Quite frankly, it baffles me that you’re still here.”

Foggy shakes his head, let’s out a disbelieving chuckle. “It’s really super simple. It’s because I care about you. Because you’re my fucking best friend. And I always thought that the feeling was mutual.”

“It _is_ ,” Matt quickly confirms.

“Yeah, but somehow during those months you were God-knows-where, it wasn’t.”

“I didn’t want to allow myself the luxury.”

“Oh, so we’re a _luxury_ now.”

Matt sighs. He makes his voice more assertive, “Foggy. Stop. Please.”

For the first time in minutes, Karen enters the conversation, he voice gentle, conciliatory. “Foggy, why don’t we let Matt tell his story?”

Foggy draws in a long breath, the way he does when he tries to calm his flaring emotions. In a calmer voice, he concedes, “Yeah, okay. Talk.”

Matt breathes in, tries to figure out where to start. Both Foggy and Karen know an abbreviated version of how he got out from under Midland Circle. He’d kept it to the bare minimum at the time when they asked all the most pressing questions.

“I guess I really need to start with Elektra.”

The name gets Foggy’s heart rate spiking, which he expected. Foggy had never liked her, resents her for the fact that she almost got Matt to miss his final exams. He has a point, because he knows that what they had was kinda messed up, but he also knows that the two of them had a special connection.

“I know you don’t like her, Foggy, and that’s okay. But what I need you to understand is that I’ve never had anyone in my life who understood me like she did. She knew all the things I could do, and she embraced them. She saw that side of me, and she knew how to cater to it in a way no one else could.

“My senses—I’ve always had to hide them from everyone. I had grown so used to living a double-life, and to be able to be completely free with her like that, it was liberating. I didn’t have to hide who I was with her.

“But she was destructive. Aggressive in a way that was alluring, but also dangerous. That night in college, before our exams, when things went belly-up, she went to too far. I never told you, but she found my father’s murderer. She had him bound to a chair in an empty mansion and she wanted me to kill him.”

Foggy’s heart rate goes up another notch, his breathing picks up. Karen follows in tune, but not quite as pronounced. He’s never told this story to anyone before. “When I refused to do it, she left. I didn’t see her again until we were tied up with the Castle case. That story, you know.”

“Why did she come back?” Foggy asks.

“She wanted me to represent her as a lawyer for a financial predicament she needed help with.”

“Why you? There’s three million other lawyers in this city she could have picked.”

“Yeah, but only one has special senses. I assume that’s what she wanted me for.”

“And you said no?”

“I said no. Initially.”

Karen says, “Let’s me guess, she’s not the kind of woman who will take no for an answer.”

The corner of Matt’s mouth curves upwards. “You’re right, she wouldn’t, and then my curiosity got the better of me. Her funds were frozen, and she rattled some cages until the Yakuza came running. Before she knew it, she was in over her head. Add to that that she had information on Roxxon that we needed, and she knew how to push my buttons.”

Karen leans back. “So you agreed to help her in exchange for information.”

“Yeah. She had also given us a pretty generous paycheck.”

“Blood money,” Foggy remarks.

“Not exactly,” Matt counters.

“Semantics. Then what happened?”

“She had me break into a safe to steal information that would help her get to her money.”

Foggy lets out a cynical chuckle. “Seriously?”

Matt smirks. “Yeah, it was pretty 007-esque. She even had me wear a tux.”

“Okay, can we fast forward to the end credits now?”

“The Yakuza didn’t like what we were doing, the Hand got involved, and they came after us.” The memories come flooding back now, and the smile fades from Matt’s lips. “We were ready to run. Just leave. Asia. Europe, didn’t matter. I wanted to be with her, to be free, be who I am.

“But we didn’t. We faced the Hand, and she took a knife to the gut. A knife that was intended for me. She died in my arms.” His brow furrows, and he needs to draw in a steadying breath.

Both Foggy and Karen are silent, their own breathing heavy. Matt knows Foggy is conflicted. He also knew that Elektra had died, but he had not heard the full story. Matt steels himself and goes on.

“Losing her was hard enough that first time, but then she came back.”

There is confusion in Karen’s voice. “What do you mean, she came back?”

Matt just shrugs. “I don’t know. They resurrected her somehow.”

She shakes her head. “Resurrected? That… that sounds crazy. No one can come back from the dead.”

Matt doesn’t understand it either. “Yeah, I know it sounds crazy. But she was there, right in front of me. She didn’t recognize me at first. I don’t know what they did to her, she was changed. But she was coming back, piece by piece. I could have made her remember, I know it.”

The memory hurts, and he shifts his position on the couch, which aggravates his injuries. He lets out a low moan that he can’t hold in check.

Foggy is immediately worried. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he assuages his friend, the pain slowly subsiding. “Just sore.”

Foggy’s voice is more sympathetic now. “We can do this some other time.” Maybe he’s starting to understand what Elektra meant to Matt—still means to him.

“No,” Matt interjects. “No, I owe you this.”

He adjusts his position, trying not to wince. “She was with me when the building collapsed. I was holding her in my arms.” He pauses, tries to rein in the emotions that come flooding back. “I didn’t think we’d survive, and maybe she didn’t. Or maybe she did. I was alone when I came out of the sewers.” His voice is close to breaking when he says, “I lost her again.”

His eyes are swimming with tears now, he can feel them threatening to fall. He wipes at them, ignores Foggy and Karen’s intense focus on him. He sniffles once, composes himself.

“When I ended up at St. Agnes, my hips and back were all messed up. The nuns did what they could, nursed me back to health, but the hearing in my right ear was completely shot. I was blind all over again, couldn’t even find my way to the bathroom.

“I was angry and alone, convinced that this was my punishment. God’s cruel will to make me suffer was to take the one thing from me that I was truly good at. I— I couldn’t imagine wanting to live like this. Clumsy, dependent, helpless.”

“Oh Matt,” Karen says, “You could—”

“Have asked. I know. And you’d have been there, both of you. But I didn’t— I didn’t see that back then. All I had was the self-pity and the anger and the absolute conviction that Matt Murdock had died at Midland Circle, and a crippled devil was all that was left.”

She shifts in her seat. “What made you change your mind?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Time. Lantom. Maggie.” He pauses. “You.”

Matt hears Foggy draw in a shaky breath. “So let me see if I understand this. You’re at the orphanage, and the nuns nurse you back to health. How do you end up in Father Lantom’s basement? Your apartment was still here.”

“Matt Murdock’s apartment. Who I wanted nothing to do with.”

“Yet, you came back. We found your sunglasses.”

“I needed a suit.”

“For what? Oh, wait. Your little escapade to the prison. That you stole my wallet for, after you dropped the bombshell on my 80% drunk ass that, oh by the way, Foggy, I’m still alive, and have been for two months, but didn’t think it important enough to tell you. Also, I’m super fucking depressed and broody and don’t want anything to do with you anymore, cause I’m full time devil now and don’t deserve to have friends. That about cover it?”

Foggy sounds disappointed, but the bite of anger isn’t there anymore. “Yeah,” Matt confirms. “I’m sorry.”

“Save it.”

“I know it was wrong. Deep down, I think I knew it was wrong back then, but I also knew that I had failed to protect you. What I do, it comes with risks and dangers and problems. You both got hurt, Stick died, and it was all on me.”

“No,” Karen says forcefully. “You always do this, and it’s not true. After Fisk first got convicted, we knew what we were getting into. And we did it anyway. Matt, you always think you need to take the whole world on your shoulders, but you don’t have to. It’s easier when you let your friends help you.”

He allows himself a small smile. “That’s exactly what Maggie tried to tell me, but I wasn’t ready to hear it.”

“So you camped out in Lantom’s basement for, how long?”

“I don’t know. Months. I had all that time to myself where everything just culminated. I was in a really bad place. Maggie was there, and she took all my angry self-loathing with grace. Then, slowly, my hearing came back. I got stronger. The devil wanted out, and maybe that was a good thing. He may have been what ultimately got me out of the hole I had dug for myself.”

“So we’re supposed to thank him now?” Foggy grumbles.

Matt’s response is another grin. “Yeah, maybe.”

Foggy’s not ready for joviality yet. “Matt, have you ever considered that these are all pretty blatant indicators for depression? There’s treatment for that these days. We can help you find a therapist. We can—”

“No,” he interrupts Foggy. “I don’t need therapy.”

Foggy lets out another heavy breath. “Yeah, I know, it sounds kinda scary. And maybe we need to have this conversation another time. I just hate to see you like this, or even imagine what it was like for you back there, all alone.

“And then that whole revelation about your mother? I still don’t fully understand. She was here the whole time, and she knew that you were literally just blocks away, and she didn’t give a shit? When I say ‘asshole behavior’, I feel like that doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

“It was complicated, Foggy.”

“That’s not an explanation. Or an excuse.”

It’s Karen who cuts in, “She had post-partum depression, Foggy.”

“Oh yeah? And how do you know?”

“Because she told me.”

That stops Matt’s thoughts dead in their tracks. “She told you? When?”

“When I was running from Fisk, just after you had found out. You had taken your things and left, and she was… I don’t know, I think she wanted to finally tell someone. She was very upset about the fact that you left.”

Foggy snorts, “Yeah, because maybe she finally realized just how much she had fucked up.”

“Oh, she knew. She struggled with it her whole life. I think there’s a lot more to it than you give her credit for.”

“Who leaves their newborn baby and lets them think that they’re dead all their life? Come to think of it, why did your father never tell you? He must have known.”

Matt doesn’t have an answer to that question, either. He’s barely known his father, and a lot of the memories he has of him are so faint now that he isn’t sure if they’re real or just something his brain wants him to believe. “I don’t know, Foggy,” he says in a low voice.

Foggy shakes his head. “Man, this is all kinds of fucked up.”

Matt forces a cynical grin. “Welcome to the Murdock family.”

“It’s not really funny, Matt.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What are you gonna do about it?”

He lifts his head, aims his face in Foggy’s direction. “About what?”

“About the fact that you found your mother who you thought was dead for over 30 years. Who is a practicing nun in a convent just around the corner, as it so happens.”

He shrugs ever so slightly. “I don’t know. Talk to her. Get to know her. Baby steps, maybe?”

“Well, it surely helps that she knows you’re the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” Foggy runs a hand down his face. “This is all so surreal. Like, pinch me, how did we get here? How is my best friend a kickass superpower vigilante and an adorable, blind, puppy-eyed muffin at the same time?”

That makes Matt actually laugh out loud. “I’m a puppy-eyed muffin?”

Karen’s voice is amused as well. “You know, you kinda are, with your fuzzy socks and your sweatpants and your hair all messy.”

Matt self-consciously smoothes down his hair. “I’m sorry that I’m not dressed for the occasion.”

She laughs. “Stop it. We love you all the same, and you know it.”

“Aww,” he says mockingly.

Foggy’s voice is more serious. “Matt? Thanks for telling us.”

He nods. “Thanks for sticking around. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

Foggy swallows. “No offense, but I think I kinda do.”

He can’t help it, his eyes are starting to well with tears. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I treated you like crap, and I am sorry.”

“I’m glad you’re acknowledging that, so thank you. It doesn’t change what happened, but I hope you’ve learned a lesson here.”

“I have, Foggy.”

“So what are we gonna do with you, all holed up here like this?”

“I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“Objection irrelevant. We should get you crutches.”

“No,” he says immediately. “It’s not that bad. I can walk. I heal fast.”

“You can hobble, at best. Did you tear any ligaments?”

“Partially.”

“Ouch, that hurts when I even just think about it.”

Karen leans forward in her armchair. “How about this, Foggy? We move our office here for a day or two, help Matt out through the worst of it. If that doesn’t work, we find a better solution.”

“What about client meetings?”

“You can cover some of them. Maybe even dial Matt in via phone. We’ll figure something out.”

Foggy sighs. “Okay, fine.”

Matt harrumphs. “Do I get a say?”

Both Karen and Foggy respond in unison. “No.”

He smiles a small smile. “I really don’t deserve you.”

Karen smiles back, as best as he can tell. “No, you don’t, but we’re here anyway. I’m not sure what that says about us.”

“Page, Nelson & Murdock, the most dysfunctional law office in all of Hell’s Kitchen.” Foggy lifts his almost empty beer bottle. “Let’s drink to that.”

They all lift their bottles and toast.

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End file.
